Chapter 16: The Weight of the Blade

Chapter 16: The Weight of the Blade

The next morning came with the same dim glow of the labyrinth, the ever-present bioluminescence casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. Ray woke with a dull ache in his limbs, his body protesting after hours of relentless sparring. His fingers curled unconsciously, still feeling the phantom weight of his sword.

Alkan was already up, inspecting the chokutō with slow, methodical strokes. The blade gleamed, untouched by time. Though the weapon had a makeshift appearance—its hilt wrapped in aged cloth, its scabbard little more than reinforced leather—the steel itself remained pristine, as if it had never tasted rust or dullness.

Ray sat up, stretching the stiffness from his muscles.

"You're late," Alkan remarked without looking up.

Ray ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Didn't know we had a schedule."

"We do now." Alkan sheathed the chokutō and stood. "Come. There's something you need to understand about that weapon."

Ray followed him deeper into the labyrinth. The corridors twisted endlessly, the air thick with an unnatural stillness. Eventually, they arrived at a secluded chamber, its floor marked with faint etchings—remnants of old battles or past wanderers.

Alkan gestured to the sword at Ray's hip. "That blade isn't yours. It belongs to this place."

Ray frowned, gripping the hilt. "Then why give it to me?"

"I'm merely lending it to you." Alkan's tone was calm, yet firm. "This is a relic of the old world, a weapon forged with meaning. It doesn't dull, doesn't break. When dismissed back into your soul, it will restore itself, slowly mending over time. But a sword, no matter how perfect, is worthless in untrained hands."

Ray's grip tightened. He hadn't wielded any weapons before, but this one felt—foreign, yet strangely familiar.

Alkan drew his own blade in a single, fluid motion. "Your stance is improving, but your swordsmanship is still shallow. You swing as if trying to cut through something. Stop thinking of your sword as just a weapon. It's an extension of yourself."

Ray adjusted his stance, inhaling sharply. Alkan's sword flashed forward. Ray barely managed to parry, his arms rattling from the impact.

"Too rigid," Alkan criticized. "You rely on strength when you should rely on flow."

Ray gritted his teeth, repositioning. The spar continued, the air filled with the sharp clang of metal against metal. Alkan moved with effortless grace, his blade a whisper of death that never fully struck but always came dangerously close.

Ray, on the other hand, struggled. Each strike felt like a test, his balance constantly on the verge of breaking. He tried to predict Alkan's movements, but the man never followed a pattern.

Then, mid-exchange, something shifted.

For a brief moment, Ray felt something—an understanding of the sword's movement, its weight, its flow. But the sensation was fleeting, like grasping at mist. He attempted to adjust, to apply the feeling to his strikes, but his execution remained lacking. The knowledge was there, hovering just out of reach, but his body had yet to fully translate it into action.

He attempted another strike, trying to flow with the motion rather than resist it, but it was clumsy. Alkan easily sidestepped, tapping Ray's blade away with minimal effort.

"Not yet," Alkan muttered. "You're reaching for something you don't fully comprehend. It's like knowing a melody but not yet being able to play it."

Ray exhaled heavily, frustration creeping in. He could sense the shift, could feel the correct way to move, but his body refused to cooperate.

Alkan observed him for a moment before lowering his weapon. "Understanding isn't mastery. Keep moving forward, and in time, your body will catch up."

They continued their sparring, the cycle repeating itself. Ray's stamina drained faster than he liked, but he refused to stop. Hours passed, each exchange refining his understanding little by little. His blade work became slightly smoother, his footwork less erratic, yet the gap between him and Alkan remained vast.

Eventually, Alkan called for a stop. Ray collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow.

"That's enough for now," Alkan said. "You've taken the first step. But don't mistake a glimpse of the path for having walked it."

Ray remained on the ground, staring up at the shifting glow of the labyrinth's ceiling. His grip on the chokutō felt different now—firmer, yet more natural. The blade wasn't just a tool anymore. It held the promise of something greater.

And one day, he would wield it as it was meant to be wielded.